


Smells Like Teen Spirit

by harrycrewe



Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-20
Updated: 2013-04-20
Packaged: 2017-12-08 23:43:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/767465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harrycrewe/pseuds/harrycrewe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The year is 1992. John McGarrett is taking down the yakuza, Doris just started a new job, and Mary is trying to survive middle school. Steve just wants to beat his dad's high school football record.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Smells Like Teen Spirit

In the hallway outside of the auditorium at Kukui High School there’s a glass case that Steve walks past nearly every day. It’s made of thick, ugly glass, frequently smudged with fingerprints, and it holds the bigger trophies the school had won over the years, alongside yellowing, hazy pictures of the baseball and football teams who won them. Next to the case, along the hallway to the principal’s office, are lists of all the regional and state record holders that have come from Kukui.

For most yards rushed by a quarterback, for instance, there’s Steve’s father’s name, “John McGarrett”, in 1959, right at the top of the list. His record wasn’t broken until nearly two decades later, by Walter Iaukea in 1978, and then again by Chin Ho Kelly just last year, who was a senior when Steve was a freshman. 

Steve’s dad’s name is up on the wall for baseball too, and once in track and field as part of a relay team, and once for the hundred meter dash. Track isn’t Steve’s favorite sport, but he does ok in it, even if he’s more of a distance runner. He’s on the soccer team too, but they didn’t have that back in his dad’s day.

Most days after class is over, Steve passes by these lists on his way out of the school building, heading to some sports practice or other. He glances at them as he goes by: just out of habit, he checks to see that his father’s name is still where it always was. As a result and after two years of doing this, Steve knows almost every person in every position on the wall by heart. Still, he can’t stop checking, like he’s worried that the names might get up and switch places when he’s not watching. It’s just a habit, one that he carries out as usual on the second Thursday afternoon of his junior year, on his way to try-outs for the football team.

Past the trophy case and out the side door, there’s a long pass of sidewalk leading from the school building past the cafeteria and the parking lot to the football stadium. The warm sun feels good on Steve’s arms and on the back of his legs when he gets outside. He walks slowly, enjoying it, and ends up being one of the last to arrive on the field. 

By the time he’s changed the upperclassmen have already started stretching out, mostly as a way of demonstrating to the incoming freshman that they’re seasoned members of the team rather than fresh meat. The freshman and the one or two upperclassman trying out for the first time mill around in their gym clothes looking uncomfortable. Steve does a couple of squats and tries not to be too obvious about checking out his competition. Darren Sanderson is big and slow and doesn’t have the greatest arm, but he’s a senior, and seniority dictates that he’ll be the quarterback and team captain this year.

On the other hand, Coach Bell and the rest of the team would really like to have a shot at State.

“Nice to see you, McGarrett,” Bell says, coming up behind Steve and patting him on the shoulder. “Can we expect to see you at every practice this season?”

“Sorry, but I’ve got track on Mondays, and soccer Thursdays once the season starts. I’ll be here the rest of the time, though.”

Bell sighs. Steve already knows what he’s thinking. “You’re ready for a bigger role on this team, Steve, but not if you aren’t ready to commit.”

Steve mentally rolls his eyes. Coach Suzuhara and Coach Berman need him too, it isn’t like he can drop everything for any one of them. 

“I’ll do my best,” he says to Bell, who looks disappointed but doesn’t push it further. 

Then they both stand there for a moment, watching as Sanderson fumbles a pass.

 

Track, on the other hand, is looking good. The upperclassmen are strong, and Coach Suzuhara clearly sees wins in their future, maybe even nationals. He’s trying to talk Steve into running more cross-country, but Steve is holding his ground.

“You need to think about what’s best for the team, McGarrett,” Suzuhara says. “We’ve got lots of good sprinters already.”

“I’m a sprinter,” Steve says firmly. 

“You really aren’t,” Suzuhara counters. “I mean, we both know you’re good, Steve, but it isn’t your strength.”

Steve closes his mouth and waits patiently until Suzuhara runs out of arguments against him. They both know that eventually he’ll give up and let Steve do what he wants.

And they wouldn’t need to argue about it at all if Suzuhara would just let him do both. Steve more or less runs cross-country anyway: he runs almost every morning on the beach behind his house, early, before anyone else in his family has gotten up. It’s nice, his feet sinking into the sand, and sometimes after forty minutes or an hour he hits the perfect zone, where he almost stops thinking, and the only thing going through his brain is the soft thud of his footsteps and the white noise of the ocean. It’s the only thing that can clear his head when he’s upset about something. Steve can, and does, run for miles. 

 

Tryouts runs late, so that sun is about to set by the time Steve finally gets home, damp from the gym showers. His mom is in the kitchen cooking something that makes the whole house smell like garlic.

“Hey, sweetie,” she says, “how was school?”

“Ok.”

“I swear, life is so much easier now that you can drive. I have a whole extra hour free now in the afternoons. Spaghetti for dinner. It’s almost ready, so go get washed up, ok?”

Steve’s stomach grumbles in response, and Doris laughs. 

He goes into the bathroom and dabs water on his face and changes his shirt. By the time he comes out again she’s putting the food on the table.

“Your dad is home already, he’ll be down in a minute. Sit down.” Steve perks up. These days, it’s unusual to see their dad at home before eight or nine o’clock at night. He’s been working for months on a very important case. It’s supposed to be a secret, but Steve has heard the word ‘yakuza’ whispered once or twice when his Dad gets calls to the house late at night. 

 

Once all four members of the McGarrett household have gathered around the kitchen table, Doris looks at them brightly, glancing face to face. 

“So,” she says, dragging the word out, “tell me about your day, guys.”

Steve suppresses a flare of annoyance at her tone. It’s always like this, kind of, with his mom- instead of talking, sometimes it’s like she pretends to talk, doing her best impression of a tv mom making sitcom family dinner conversation. Everyone will play along, because she gets annoyed when they don’t, and Steve already knows how it’ll go: she’ll make them answer questions for a few minutes, and it doesn’t even matter what they say, after she feels like it’s been the right amount of talk she’ll come around to whatever topic she was waiting to bring up all along. Sometimes he wishes his mom would just chill out, let them talk about whatever, or maybe all sit quietly if they wanted.

“Pretty good,” John starts things off gamely. “We caught a kid who got his hand stuck in a soda machine trying to rob it.”

Mary giggles at the image. 

“Steve?” Doris asks, “What did you do?” 

Steve shrugs, unable to think of anything quickly. Doris, interpreting his silence as a bad mood, sighs. “Mary?”

Mary looks doubtful, “We’re studying Egypt in history?”

“That’s nice,” says Doris. She smiles, waits, and when Mary doesn’t continue, prompts, “well, what did you learn about Egypt?”

“They worshipped cats,” Mary says, “Can we have a cat?”

Steve finishes his spaghetti and goes back to the stove for a second serving. Doris looks from her husband to her children. “Is anybody going to ask how my day went?” she asks.

Called it, thinks Steve. Their mom is already spilling her news. “You know how I’ve been saying I want to work more? Well! I was promoted today to the Pacific West Mary Kay lead sales representative!”

Three faces look at her blankly. 

“That means that instead of just selling things out of the house, I’m going to start travelling. I get to go to sales conferences in California, and visit other zones to help them increase their productivity.”

Her husband puts his fork down. “That’s great,” he says slowly, “is this already decided, or…” He’s looking hard at his wife, as if he’s trying to ask her something else, too. Doris’ smile shifts, becoming marginally brittle.

“Of course I want us to talk about it as a family,” she says. “But I really think it’s perfect. Now that Mary’s in middle school, and honestly John, I’m tired of puttering around the house all day.”

John shifts back in his chair, “yeah, I know, sweetheart. But Mary Kay?” he pronounces the name uncomfortably, like he isn’t sure what to make of it.

“That’s all it is,” Doris says, firmly. “Just selling make-up, and getting to meet some other nice ladies who do the same thing, and a little more money coming in at the end of the month.”

He looks at her a minute longer, and then nods, accepting it. Steve knows how disagreements always go down between his parents, anyway – his mom is super-stubborn and his dad really isn’t around enough to say no – so he figures it’s just as well. His mom does seem kind of frustrated recently: she’s always baking trays of cupcakes ten at a time, or going out in the front yard to dig plants up because she’s decided she doesn’t like where she put them two weeks ago. 

“So I was thinking,” his mom starts again, “we should do something as a family this weekend, to celebrate.”

 

They talk about various options – movies, mini-golf, or just going to the beach – but they settle on their favorite thing that they always do: going to the shooting range. It’s a McGarrett family tradition. 

Hank Pulahi, who runs the range, grins and raises a hand to welcome them when they enter.

“Lanes eight and nine are all yours, guys.”

Steve and Mary have been shooting since they were little, and both are pretty comfortable around guns, but they can’t compete with the way their parents handle them: ear protection, safeties on and then unlocked, they treat the comfortable old handguns that each of them owns like extensions of their own body. It’s inconceivable that either of them would ever be surprised by a gun, that either would ever put a bullet where they didn’t want one. With Steve’s dad, of course, it makes sense: he has his weapon on him all the time for work. Steve’s a little less clear on where his mother learned to shoot, although she did mention something once about Girl Scout camp. 

Steve and Mary shoot with their parent’s second- and third-favorite weapons. They do ok: Mary puts twenty holes straight through the head of the target, while Steve manages nineteen out of twenty, only missing the one because he got distracted. After a while they run out of ammunition and wander over towards their parents. 

His dad and mom stand side by side. They smile competitively at each other, not really noticing their kids. There’s something subtly physical and flirtatious about the way they shoot together. Mary groans and puts her hands over her eyes, and Steve wanders off towards the small store Mr. Pulahi keeps by the counter, to check out the new merch: pink rifle cases for preteen girls, and tac vests with a holster sewn into the back.

“What’s that?” his mom says, wandering over. “Oh,” she glances at the vests. “Not a bad design.”

Steve is imagining himself reaching around behind his back, sliding out his gun, and then executing some kind of running maneuver, shooting at bad guys as he slides across the floor.

“You’ve got a birthday coming up,” observes his mother.

“I don’t know,” says Steve, trying to be cool. 

His mom laughs at him in a self-satisfied way, like she’s got him all figured out. Steve feels embarrassed and then uncertain; like maybe he doesn’t want the tac vest anymore. 

 

In the car on the way back home, Doris says to John, “so, I’m leaving for my first trip on Monday morning. I won’t be back until Thursday. Can you take me to their airport on your way to work?”

“Ok,” John says. After a pause he adds, “wow, that was fast. They just promoted you and you’re traveling already.”

Doris doesn’t answer, and after a moment, Mary pipes in from the back seat, “who’s going to get me after school on Tuesday?” 

“Can’t you take the bus?”

“I have German club after school. It doesn’t end until 3:30.”

“Steve, can you pick her up?” their dad’s eyes flicker towards Steve in the rearview mirror.

“I can’t, I have football.” 

His dad frowns. “Steve, you know that I’m in the middle of something at work right now. I can’t leave to get her at three-thirty.”

Steve grinds his teeth in frustration.

 

So he ends up missing practice on Monday for track, and again Tuesday to give Mary her ride. Maybe because of that, but probably not, the next day when the football team is posted everyone learns that Coach Bell has given the QB position to Sanderson. 

At the next practice Thursday Steve can tell Sanderson is excited about it, and maybe a little relieved, strutting around like he owns the field. He goes so far as to try to correct Steve’s form when they’re practicing a play.

“Thanks, man,” says Steve, who doesn’t really give a shit. 

“Next year you’ll probably make a really good quarterback,” Sanderson says, sounded smug. 

“Thanks,” says Steve, insincerely. Next year, he thinks, maybe we’ll actually win something for a change.

 

His mom comes back from her meeting at the end of the week with bags under her eyes and a long red gash down her arm that she got when she slipped and fell in a parking lot of a Hyatt Regency. She’s patched it with surgical gauze, but Steve can see the edges of the bruise surrounding the cut, yellow and purple, creeping out from underneath the white fabric.  
“What was the weather like in San Francisco?” Mary asks. Doris looks at her blankly for a moment, before laughing in that fake, bright way that makes Steve’s skin crawl.

“Oh, it was perfect, sweetie. You know that the weather in California is always wonderful.”

She’s brought a new laptop back from California with her: a black rectangle that the company has given her in order to manage her make-up sales. She sets on her desk in the corner of the living room and forbids her kids and her husband to touch. Steve is intrigued: they have desktops at his school’s computer lab, of course, but this looks cooler somehow, sleeker and more modern. His mom spends every waking hour on it, and he has no idea what she’s doing. 

 

She leaves again only two weeks later: to Seattle this time, just in time to miss Steve’s first track meet and first football game of the season. It’s not that big a deal, but Steve’s dad can’t make it either. Steve doesn’t mind: he’s sixteen years old, it’s not like he needs his family following him everywhere. Maybe once or twice he finds himself looking up into the stands for their faces that aren’t there. 

Maybe it’s for the best because, seriously, the football team is a joke: guys everywhere, Sanderson can’t even seem to remember which side of the field he’s supposed to be running towards. The other team manages a couple of respectable but not spectacular plays that land them fourteen points ahead by the end of the fourth quarter. Steve grinds his teeth and mutters under his breath on the bus ride back, until Bell shoots him a look that lets him know that he’d better cool it. 

The track meet the next day goes better. The weather is muggy, but Steve’s just broken in a new pair of sneakers. They make him run faster, and maybe all that running on the beach over the summer is helping too: the asphalt feels almost springy when sprinting across the finish line, well ahead of any of the other runners. He already knows that his time is going to be good. It is: already as good as what he was hitting at the end of last year. When Coach Suzuhara nods to him after the meet is over, Steve can tell that he’s decided he’s more than ok with Steve’s decision to stick with sprinting. Afterwards, he takes extra time to go over Steve’s form with him, and to talk about strategies for preparing before a race. Steve feels good, keyed up, adrenaline and endorphins keeping him hopping from toe to toe.

“Be careful,”Suzuhara says, “I don’t want you getting banged up during football practice, ok?”

That starts Steve thinking about football. There’s no reason to play, kind of – he likes it, but it isn’t going to be his year, and it isn’t going to be the team’s, either. He’s better off lining up his targets, and knocking them down one by one: track in the fall, baseball in the spring, football when he’s a senior. But if he quits now, he doesn’t trust Bell not to make him start his way back from the bottom when he comes back next year.

 

When he gets home that night his dad is sitting at the kitchen table with Keoki and Ookala, his buddies from work since forever. They’re playing their weekly poker game, although recently, with work, it’s trickled to more of a monthly or bimonthly affair. Everyone is distracted by their cards, but they still manage to say hello to Steve and ask how he’s doing.

“All right,” Steve answers, coming over to stand next to his dad. He glances at the cards in John’s hands: a pair of aces. Something on his face must give it away, because across the table, Keoki abruptly folds, and John looks up at Steve and huffs, not really annoyed. 

“I’m thinking of dropping football,” Steve says.

His Dad looks surprised. His friends make sounds of disapproval. 

“Why’s that?” John asks.

Steve chooses his words carefully. “It’s just, I’m doing really well in track this year,” he begins, “I ran 11.2 in the hundred-meter dash.”

“That’s nice,” says John, “you’re a pretty good sprinter, huh?” He sits down next to Steve, leaning back. “I sprinted back in high school.”

“I know,” Steve says.

“I was pretty good too,” John remembers. “Can’t remember what I ran, though.” 

10.9, Steve thinks. 10.9, it’s right up there on the wall – but he before he can open his mouth to say so, his Dad goes on. “So you want to drop football to concentrate more on track, huh? Seems reasonable. But you know-” a pause, “sports are great, Steve, and I’m proud that you’re such a good athlete. But you’re a junior already, you should be thinking about academics too. Think about what you want to do after you graduate.”

Steve’s grades are fine, and he’s already decided what he wants to do once he graduates. 

“I’m going to Annapolis,” he reminds his Dad. “I want to become a Navy Seal.” 

Keoki slaps his leg with his hand. “That’s your kid, McGarrett,” he says, and John flashes a quick smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Sure is,” he says, laying down his cards to thump Steve on the back, “mine, and his mother’s too.”

 

The second football games of the season are losses too, and for the same reasons: poor timing and poorer teamwork. During the third game, worse luck hits: the skies open up in the middle of the first quarter, and a torrential downpour follows. The players can barely see what they are doing, and yet the opponents manage to get two touchdowns in the first half. Coach Bell stamps in the mud on the sidelines, swearing. The rest of the cheerleaders do a modified version of their routine, smiling in spite of the drenched uniforms, wet ponytails, and running make-up (actually their coach is on the sidelines, yelling, ‘SMILE!” at them, so maybe it isn’t that different than football). Steve spends half the game on the bench even though he’s sure he could have turned it around for them. 

He’s made up his mind to quit, but unexpectedly, Monday after the weekend, fate lends him a hand. Sanderson and some friends go out driving along the coast, and while the rumors racing through the school the next day about what happened are fantastically unlikely, what does appear to be indisputable is that there was a car crash, but thank God everyone is ok, except that Mark Stanhope broke his arm and Sanderson’s leg is in a cast. Ergo, both of them are out until the end of the season. 

Coach Bell makes the official announcement at practice that afternoon, and then does some deft reshuffling. “Ok, Steve,” he says in front of the whole team, which makes it official. “You’re up.”

 

With that, both football and track are indisputably in full swing. It’s a constant rush: track practice Monday Tuesday Thursday, meets on Saturday mornings, football Monday Wednesday Friday, games on Friday nights, and extra practices or track meets most Saturdays, too.

Steve can say without false pride that games goes better as soon as he becomes quarterback. It’s obvious: he brings them their first win in the fifth game, against Moanalua, then their sixth, against McKinley. The seventh, they can’t quite pull it together. 

So he’s carrying the team. He knows it’s not the right way to play the game, not the right way to win, but he doesn’t see any other option at the moment, at least not this season. The upside of that is that he’s adding yards to his record, rapidly. It takes a while after having missed the first three games they’re stacking up, so that he catches himself sneaking glances at his dad’s record and counting in his head, doing the math to work out how many he has to average a game in order to catch up, and how many more to get ahead. Every game, he imagines that its John’s face behind the helmet of the opposing team’s QB.

Track is the same: at one meet he gets down to 10.9, but then his foot slips and for the next couple of weeks he’s right back up again:: 11.1, 11.4, 11.2, every time. Finally one day in late October he gets down to what he’s sure is 10.9 again, but the girl with the stopwatch isn’t paying enough attention and calls it late. Steve’s only a second away from yelling in her face when he manages to stop himself. Next time, he tells himself, next time he’ll make it. 

 

In October his mom his distracted: she barely seems to notice her kids or her husband, but instead spends her days hunched in front of her laptop, or making long phone calls that she takes in the bathroom with the door locked, or out on the beach, constantly looking around in all directions and lowering her voice whenever someone passes too close to her. When she talks to Steve and Mary, it’s like she’s more on autopilot than ever: she asks how their day went, and it would hardly matter if Steve said he got an F on a math exam, or was nearly run over by a rhinoceros, or punctured a lung in football practice: she just says, “oh, really?” in that same distracted way of hers. To be fair, maybe their dad isn’t much better, but the family has been used to it for longer. It bugs Steve that his mom is ignoring them, but with casual teenaged egotism, he never wonders what she’s actually doing: who cares, it’s not important.

At the end of the month, Doris travels again. This time it’s for three whole weeks. Steve has to pick up Mary a couple of times a week while she’s gone. To be honest, he doesn’t really pay attention to his sister either, until one day she gets into his car every day with relief that he couldn’t ignore even if he wanted too. 

“How was school?” Steve asks, awkward because it feels like a Mom thing to say. Mary shrugs.

“Fine.” 

He knows from the way she says it that it isn’t fine. But he isn’t sure what he’s supposed to say. He tries to think about what line their mom would use, or their dad – but fuck it, Steve thinks, they aren’t here.

“Do you want to go surfing?” he asks instead. 

The waves are good, and it’s been ages since they surfed, weeks at least. Some of the kids from his class are out on the beach too, but he picks a strip of sand for himself and Mary well away from them. Mary’s not much of a surfer so Steve helps her catch a couple of small waves, by telling her when to start kicking. Mostly they end up just lying on their boards, letting the water carry him up and down. Eventually she spills all the dirt on why she isn’t happy at middle school: the girls in her class make fun of her, she doesn’t have anybody to sit next to at lunchtime – and Steve listens and wonders whether it would be wrong to punch a bunch of girls in middle school. 

“When is Mom coming back?” Mary asks after a while, drowsy under the late afternoon sun.

“I don’t know, Saturday?” Steve asks.

“She’s travelling a lot these days.”

“I don’t know, Mary. I guess.”

“I miss her,” Mary says, eventually, her arms and legs trailing in the water.

“Geez,” says Steve, paddling towards the shore. “Stop being so _stupid_ , Mare.”

 

But when Doris gets back a few days later he gives it a try anyway, hanging around in the kitchen while she runs a sponge over the sink that no one’s cleaned the entire time she’s been away, and trying to decide what he wants to say. 

He decides on, “Mary’s getting picked on at school.”

Doris looks over at him. “Why do you say that?” 

Steve tells her what Mary told him, and gradually her expression relaxes.

“That isn’t that big a deal,” she says. “God, middle-school girls are awful, I remember.”

“It’s a big deal to her,” Steve feels weirdly hurt.

“She’ll get over it,” says Doris. “It’ll make her stronger, you’ll see. Kids just have to pick at each other sometimes.”

“Nobody did that to me.” 

“You’re a popular kid, aren’t you?” Doris sounds amused. “I was too, you know. So was your Dad. Mary’s just cut from a different mold, Steve. She’s sensitive. Until she learns, she’s always going to have a hard time. It’ll be good for her,” she repeats, going back to scrubbing the sink. 

“It’s just,” Steve tries, “It’s really bothering her.”

Doris pulls back from the sink again, letting her hand rest against her hip. “Steve,” she said. “I love you guys, but you aren’t little kids anymore. Mary has to start learning how to solve her own problems.” She pauses. “And I don’t know if you realize this, but I’ve been a full-time mom practically since you were born.” She throws her hands up, “I need to start having my own life again.” She looks at him with an expression that brooks no argument, “you understand, don’t you?”

Steve understands that his Mom would rather be off traveling then staying in Hawaii with them, and dealing with their stupid problems. He knows that she gets bored, or she gets sick of them, or something, but she’s their mom, and she owes them, and it makes him mad. 

 

That night they have a family dinner. Doris grills fish and they eat outside. She makes a big deal out of serving it, and pretends not to notice that both her children are quiet and sulky. 

“Have you thought anymore about what I said, Steve?” John asks midway through the meal.

“About what?”

“About what you want to do after high school.”

“I already told you,” Steve says, not thinking – his mouth full. “Navy.”

His Dad looks thoughtful. “You know I was in the Navy reserves, right?” Steve nods. “And it was one of the best experiences of my life. It taught me discipline, and I was proud to serve my country. But- ”

“But?” Doris interrupts him.

“But,” Johns says, firmly, “I guess I didn’t know what it would be like, until I got there.”

“What do you mean?” asks Doris. She sounds challenging.

“What I mean,” John says back at her, stressing the words, “Is that it’s a young man’s game. It’s fine for a couple of years, but sooner or later when you’ve got a family, kids, you’ll want to spend more time with them.” He looks at Steve carefully, testing to see if he understands, “you might want a job that’s a little more stable, less dangerous.”

Before Steve has a chance to think about that, his mom interrupts with a snort. “What’s that supposed to mean, John?” She asks. “A young man’s game?” She gestures towards him. “You’re a better cop now than you were at twenty-five, or even thirty.”

“I am,” John agrees, fairly. “But-”

“But nothing,” she says. “You protect people, Jack. You keep people safe. If Steve wants to do that too, you should be proud of him.”

“I am!” John says, firmly. He looks at Steve and Mary. “I will be. I’ll be proud of both of you, whatever you decide to do with your lives.” 

“It’s ok, Dad,” Steve tells him, “I don’t mind.” And he really doesn’t, even though he thinks it’s kind of a trick, to distract him from his chosen plan of being better than his Dad at everything. He’s wanted to be a Seal since the first time he found out that his dad was in the navy before he became a cop, and that a Seal was the most badass job there was. 

In contrast, he’s never thought that much about having a family. For one thing, he’s sixteen. If his experience with girls so far is any indication, it’ll work itself out anyway. 

He tries to imagine it as he falls asleep that night. Maybe he’ll get married, and his wife will stay home with the kids while he goes off and does Seal stuff. Or maybe he’ll meet a girl who’s into doing stuff too, and they’ll go all over the place together, shooting bad guys and messing things up. But when they have kids… he fantasizes for a minute about running around with a kid next to him, catching spies together as a family like in a Disney movie. No, Steve decides: when they’re done, they’ll really be done, none of this bullshit, either that or he won’t have kids. 

 

 

A week later Doris leaves again, and John has to spend a whole string of days working late, and never gets home until after nine pm. One evening when Mary is up in her bedroom reading and Steve is doing sets of push-ups in between solving problems for math homework, the doorbell rings.

“I’ll get it,” calls Mary, flying downstairs towards the front door. 

Steve hears her say, “who is it?” but he doesn’t catch the response. After a moment he finishes his push-up and gets up to see who’s out their trying to sell them what.

It’s two Asian guys – not Islander-Asian, Steve thinks, but Asian-Asian – he can just tell that something about their hair and their clothing is wrong for them to come from Hawaii. Mary looks confused.

“Is this the McGarrett residence?” One of them asks Steve with a faint, blurred accent.

By instinct, Steve pulls Mary back, putting himself between them and her.

“Who wants to know?” He blusters.

The same guy who asked them the question, smiles. “Steven, is it?” he reaches into a coat pocket and pulls out a business card, that he hands to Steve. “Tell your father that we’re sorry he missed him.”

The two men turn to leave, Steve watches as they head down the street, towards a car that’s been parked behind some bushes. He can’t catch the license plate number.

“Who were they?” asks Mary.

“Remember what Dad said!” Steve says, turning around to glare at her as soon as the door’s been shut and bolted. “Never open the door without checking who it is first!” 

“I’m sorry,” Mary’s lower lip trembles. “Do we have to tell Dad?”

Steve turns the card over in his hand. It’s plain card stock, matte, and the name ‘Kouji Noshimuri’ is printed on one side, above a telephone number and nothing else. 

 

His Dad’s face turns pale when Steve hands it to him.

“Where did you get this?” 

Steve shakes his head. “They came by the house,” he admits. “Dad, what do we do?”

John shakes his head, “let me talk to your mother.”

When Doris comes home their parents go straight out to the lanai to talk. It’s their favorite place for arguments, where they think that the kids can’t hear.

Steve and Mary figured out a work-around years ago, of course. When they go up to Steve’s room and crack the back window, the sound travels upwards surprisingly well. 

“He was just trying to rattle you, John,” their mom is saying, “Us. They were trying to rattle us.”

“Well, they succeeded.”

“The only thing you can do is keep bringing in evidence. The stronger you build the case, the sooner you have them behind bars,” their mom sounds collected, logical as always.

“They knew Steve’s name,” John says, and then adds something that neither Steve nor Mary hear clearly.

Doris sighs, “maybe we should give Steve the key to the gun cabinet.”

John snarls. “Maybe you should quit your fucking job so you can be home with them more often.”

“Excuse me?” All at once their mother’s voice has gone dangerous and sharp. “You knew who I was when I married you. Don’t ask me to change for you.”

“For them, Doris. They’re your kids.”

“They’re our kids, but I don’t see you running to turn in your badge. And this is all pointless anyway. Noshimuri is just trying to scare you: he’s not dumb enough to lay a finger on Steve or Mary. If leaving them home alone really makes you so nervous, then remind Steve where we keep the guns and make sure he knows what to do if they come back to the house. He’s old enough, and he’s responsible.”

They drift further from Steve’s window, out around the other side of the house. Then they hear his father’s footsteps, stomping angrily: he’s come back alone, slamming the screen door. Steve and Mary hastily turn out the light and hide in the dark, listening to him swear as he bangs around downstairs.

That night he can’t sleep. He hears his parent’s argument repeating, over and over, and especially his mother’s voice as she yells, angry and dismissive. 

 

The next morning she’s made waffles to send them off to school, big warm crispy ones with fresh mango and papaya on top. Steve thinks that maybe his Dad won the argument after all. He thinks about it at school that day: trying to imagine his mom being home all the time, like she was before, picking up Mary after school and making them bag lunches or something - but maybe frustrated the whole time, maybe even sort of hating it, even though he and Mary were too small and too dumb before, to see. 

 

When he comes home after football practice, though, Doris isn’t there, and his Dad is: standing in the kitchen with his back straight and his best handgun resting on the kitchen table.

“You shoot pretty well,” John observes, and Steve nods, pleased that his Dad has noticed.

“This is the key to the gun cabinet,” John says, putting it down on the table next to him. “I had a copy made today at lunch. You know where I keep the ammunition.” He nods towards the garage. 

“Ok,” Steve says. His heart races when he looks at the little key: anger and terror warring with each other. 

“I’m trusting you with this because I know you’re responsible enough to handle it,” John tells him. 

“We won’t let anybody in the house when you aren’t here,” Steve promises him. 

“Exactly,” John says approvingly, and then nods back towards the weapons. “And these are for if anyone tries to come in anyway.”

“Yes, sir,” says Steve, and that seems to be the right answer, because his father grunts, and finally nods. It feels like they’re on the same team together: partners. Usually the thought would make Steve proud, but instead he’s feels angry, furious, even though he can’t articulate why, and his mother’s voice is still ringing in his ears. 

 

One afternoon in November, Steve picks Mary up from school to find her almost beside herself with excitement.

“Steve,” she chants, “Steve, Steve, Steve!” and thrusts towards his chest a card with Snoopy on it, dancing and holding a present.

“Happy Birthday Lisa!” Steve reads, “You are cordially invited to Lisa Isenberg’s thirteenth birthday party…”

“She sits next to me in biology and history,” Mary says. “She said we were friends.” She smiles like she’s almost afraid too.

“Hey, that’s great,” Steve says, trying to be cool about it.

Everyone’s in the same place for a change, and his Dad’s case load is finally starting to ease up, and once again all four members of the McGarrett household are around the dinner table at the same time, eating spaghetti. 

“The State semi-finals are this Friday,” Steve tells his parents. 

His parents both look blank for a moment.

“Friday’s not great for me, Sport,” his dad says, looking genuinely regretful. “I can’t make any promises.”

“Me either,” says Doris. “I meant to tell you, but something else has come up at work. So I’ll be leaving tomorrow morning.”

Steve doesn’t even know why he even bothered to tell them.

“I’m sure you’ve got it under control,” his Dad says. “Just play your best.”

“Steve?” says Mary, “I can go.”

Steve just rolls his eyes at her. “You have a slumber party, remember? I’ll take you over to your friend’s house before the game.”

 

When Steve gets up early the next morning, his Mom is awake too, wearing the nice raincoat that she takes when she travels. Her suitcase is by the door.

“Hey, Sweetie,” she says. “Sorry, I hope I didn’t wake you.”

Steve shakes his head, and goes over to the fridge. The gallon of milk inside is only a quarter of the way full. He tips his head back and finishes half of it in one gulp. His mom watches him, but for once, she doesn’t say anything to him about getting a glass.

“You know, when I was pregnant with you, I drank so much milk,” she says.

“Mom!”

Her lips quirk into a smile over his scandalized expression, “well, I did. They say that pregnant women don’t like the taste of milk, but with you, I could never get enough.”

Steve frowns at her, but finishes off the gallon.

“With Mary, it was lemons,” Doris muses, “anything with citrus. I don’t know why.”

Steve throws the empty gallon container in the trash, and opens the fridge again. There’s some bread in there, as well as a little bit of sandwich meat. He pulls them out, and then goes to look for cheese.

“This one time, when I was on a- ” Doris stops herself, and then starts again, “at a business meeting, when I had just found out that I was pregnant with you, I – fell – and I was so worried, thinking that maybe I had hurt you somehow.”

“You fell?” Steve asks, thinking of the bruise she came back with after her first trip, and the ugly cut on her temple that’s still healing, from a shattered mirror in a hotel bathroom.

“What?”

“You’re always falling.” 

Weirdly, his mom smiles. “Maybe I am. You know, Steve,” she looks down into her teacup. “It isn’t easy to be a parent. No one tells you how to do it, you just have to make it up as you go along.”

Steve snorts. “That’s kind of obvious, Mom.”

“Don’t be smart,” she frowns. “It’s so hard to talk to you sometimes, do you know that?”

Something angry and frustrated twists in Steve’ stomach. “When have you ever even wanted to talk to me, Mom? You don’t care. You just want me to tell you that everything’s fine, and you want Mary and me to be around to play house whenever you feel like it, so that you can go off on your stupid trips without feeling guilty. You’re always lying!” It’s not the word that he expected come out his mouth, he was going to say that she’s always away. But as soon as he says the word ‘lying’, Steve knows it’s true. His mother’s face pales, as if the word is a physical blow.

“I’ve never lied to you,” she snaps angrily. “I’ve never lied to you about anything that mattered, Steven.”

He can’t answer her without yelling, so he turns and leaves instead, slamming the door extra hard behind him. Once he’s out back he toes his shoes off on the lanai and then heads for the beach. The sand feels good on his feet: damp, heavy between his toes, and it weighs him down when he runs. He goes for a long time anyway: through the pale pre-dawn and the sunrise, further than he should. He has his milestones: turning around at the Freeman’s house makes a 3k loop, at the marina makes a five. Not far from the beach he can see the road, once or twice he mistakes a car passing for his mom’s blue Miata. He tries to decide what he would have said to her if she had followed him out on the beach, but he can’t think of anything and it’s stupid to think about anyway, because of course she didn’t. A mile past the marina he gives up, and turns around and jogs home at a more relaxed pace. He feels better by the time he gets back, just the way he always does: the world seems crisp and clear again, like something he can handle, all the muscles in his legs pleasantly stretched and tingly.

His Mom is already gone, of course, the space for her car is empty in the garage. Steve drinks water from the sink and goes to take a shower: he doesn’t know why he lets it bother him, when she’s always been like this and is never going to be any different. 

 

That afternoon before the Semi-Finals, Coach Bell ends practice early to give them a pep talk about keeping their focus, staying on target, and following through. 

The game is glorious. Steve knows from the minute they step out on the field that the win is theirs for the taking. They play hard and fast, not giving Punahou High even an inch. Everything is as close to perfect as it’s ever been: everyone is in sync, everyone hits their mark, and Steve can almost see the moment when the other team starts to give up and then give way to them, falling away like sand being pushed back by a wave. 

 

Afterwards, in the crush of sweaty bodies – guys hugging each other, Coach Bell yelling, the kids in the stands going nuts - Steve feels weirdly calm. He already knows that they’re going to take State. Coach Bell thinks so, and all the guys do too, although nobody wants to jinx them by saying so out loud. Everybody’s just holding their breath waiting. The seniors are the happiest about it, even Sanderson is glad that he’ll be going out on a high note. He sat on the bench during the semi-finals, yelling louder than any of the fans.

But Steve doesn’t care. He already knows that football doesn’t matter. The only victories that matter are the ones he chooses for himself: he sets up his own targets, then he knocks them down. He isn’t going to break his father’s record this season. The first couple of games set him back too far, even with the finals planned out meticulously, with alternatives for every eventuality, it’s too late for this year. And so, although it’s real to everyone else, to Steve the last game of the year will just be another practice run, although a satisfying one, because things have finally really come together. Like a military drill, Bell barks out the orders, Steve leads the guys out into the field, to follow them. 

 

When he gets home later, the house is empty. He sleeps until noon and then wakes up with a sense of having forgotten something. It takes a while to hit him: shit, Mary, he’s forgotten to pick up Mary. He goes back outside, gets the car, and drives as fast as he can to her friend’s house.

She’s watching tv with the birthday girl when he gets there. All the other kids have already gone home. 

“Steve!” She yells when she sees him knocking on the front door.

“Hey, Mary,” he tells her. “Sorry I’m late.”

“That’s ok. Did you forget and oversleep? I knew you were going to do that. I called the house to wake you up but you didn’t even answer. Hey, Mom is coming home today, right?” She talks rapidly, without taking a breath. 

“Yeah?” asks Steve, “I guess she is.”

“Do you think she brought us presents?”

“I doubt it.”

“Probably not, right?” Mary unzips her backpack. “I made this really cool drawing in art class yesterday, do you want to see?”

“Maybe later,” says Steve, and then, because he wants to apologize for being late, “Do you want to get some shaved ice?”

“Yeah!” says Mary. 

Steve parks and they get one of the tables outside the shaved ice stand. Mary eats hers slowly, letting it melt and turn to dripping syrup down her fingers. Steve finishes fast, and then sits waiting for her to finish, impatiently banging the table with his leg.

“What time does Mom’s flight come in this time?” Mary asks.

“I don’t remember.”

“I think it was at five. What time is it now?”

Steve checks his watch, “four-thirty.”

“We should go home so that we can meet her. Does Dad have to work late?”

She licks her fingers clean as she climbs back into the car next to him and they drive back home. When they get there, the lights are still off. Mary waits like a spring at the door. As soon as Mom gets home, she’s going to jump on her like a puppy, Steve just knows it. And Doris will look at her with that look she gets and say, “Mary, aren’t you getting a little too old for that?” A year ago, it would have made Steve smile, but now he just thinks that one of these days, Mary is going to stop being so stupid.

But they wait for what seems like forever, and the clock creeps past six o’clock, towards seven, and then eight. It gets dark outside. Mary wants to order a pizza for dinner, but between them they only come up with about four dollars. They make macaroni and cheese instead. Steve could eat the whole package by himself, but Mary insists on making him leave enough for their parents, even though Steve tells her that they’ve probably eaten on their own by now already.

The leftover food is cold and coagulated before they finally hear tires in the driveway, and see headlights shining into the kitchen window. Mary jumps up from her place in front of the television, running to the back door.

“Mom!” She shrieks.

It’s not their mom, though, it’s their dad. He’s swearing his uniform and his face looks gray, as if he’s been sick. Steve knows something is wrong as soon as he sees him, although Mary hasn’t noticed yet, she’s too busy dancing around him in her socks.

“Dad,” Steve starts to ask, but then he stops himself, not sure why. 

Their father sits down heavily at the kitchen table. He looks as though he’s trying to speak, but instead of words, the sound that comes out of his mouth is just pain. Steve has never heard his father cry before, but it goes on and on, for what’s probably no more than a few minutes but feels like hours. Mary starts crying too, but Steve just stands there, frozen, looking at him, trying to understand what’s happened. Eventually, between the sobs, he starts to make out words his Dad is saying – _you, your mother,_ and finally, over and over again: _this is all my fault._

This is how their mother leaves them.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic started off as kind of a joke about Steve's childhood and how his mom probably used really dumb excuses to cover her spy activity with her family (bookclubs, tupperware parties, and yes, Mary Kay) and slowly morphed into a Doris McGarrett hate fic. I have a lot of feelings about Doris, but I can't go into them without writing a polemic... just, um, yeah. It's complicated.


End file.
